January

Pulse of the neon lights
reflect on a soup of snow and grime,
a black ice. Christmas strains struggle
to hold onto the alleyways, screaming
over the screech
of car wheels losing control
over the sheets on the ebony streets.
The secret hopes written
on the backs of bar napkins
and blurred in the liquid ring
from the bottom of a bottomless mug.
The dead of winter kindles hopes
that are extinguished with the Christmas lights.
Till next year, when December rolls around.
January is the month
that never cared
for the lost resolutions that are made
year after year
on the backs of bar napkins.